


Go The Spoils

by GhostCrumpet



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Captain Hydra, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, Hint of hope at the end i'm not gonna lie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 19:09:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20533097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostCrumpet/pseuds/GhostCrumpet
Summary: AU where Steve is Captain Hydra, and Darcy is, well... to the victor, as they say.





	Go The Spoils

“This is excellent news, sir, and most welcome,” the sycophant, one of many, sat around the long conference table. It had been _hours_, and Steve’s body ached from sitting in one position for far too long. Irritation coiled in his belly like a snake, and he wondered what noises the sycophant would make if the man was suddenly choked by one large fist of freedom.

He was done with his debrief. He was _ready_ to debrief in altogether different fashion. The uniform itched, the black and red triple stitching raising small welts on his skin underneath. A small price to pay, really, for being such a beacon that wherever he went people cowered in his presence.

There was something to be said when you didn’t _need_ to fight, when the sight of you was enough to have enemy troops, enemies of liberty, would lay down their weapons rather than lay down their lives. Just another day for him, taking over the capital of England. It had held out for far too long, and if his superiors had just let him in earlier…

Fewer casualties on their side would have resulted. But in the end, that wasn’t his business or his responsibility. It chafed him, of course, because he was built for purpose. He had been remade with purpose. To lead, to conquer, to spread the freedom that was Hydra all over the world. And yet, they always had him on a leash, as if they didn’t entirely trust him to come back to his handlers when they called.

Steve rubbed at the bridge of his nose. Had he not proven his loyalty? He had eliminated almost all those that had stood against the Red Threat. The Ironman. The Black Widow. He smiled faintly. Hawkeye. That had been a fight. He almost wished to relive it. All had fallen to him, to their knees, to kiss his shield.

The chatter at the meeting was giving him a headache, as rare as those were. He sighed and slapped his hand down on the table.

“Enough,” he said. Immediately the talk quieted. Multiple pairs of eyes stared at him and he reveled, for a moment, that they feared him as much as the enemy did.

Good.

They should. They had seen the path of destruction he alone had cut through France, then Italy, and now England. America was next, but that was a larger peach to crush. It would take time. He’d need to sleep first.

“Are we about finished patting ourselfves on the back?” He asked, his voice dull and flat.

“Captain-“

He lifted his upper lip in a sneer, leaning forward. The man who had spoken pulled back, his head hitting the chair with a thump.

“I will remind each of you that if you had allowed me into England prior to this, we wouldn’t have lost nearly all the left flank to their forces. This is no victory. I hope you’ll remember that your caution cost us precious lives dedicated to the cause as we turn our heads to America.”

His main handler, a petite blonde that stuck to his side like a burr when he was not out on active duty, lifted her hand to silence any detractors.

“Captain Rogers, your captain, has spoken,” she said, getting to her feet. “I think we can release him to the rest of his day, for some well-deserved relaxation.” Steve followed her, resisting the urge to stretch as he did so. He wanted them to think he was more than superhuman, that even sitting on his ass for five hours wouldn’t result in a single cramp. Never mind that he was itching to fight again, his blood pumping and his whole body irritable from listening to a bunch of windbags congratulate themselves for a job well done.

There were a flurry of small movements as the other men around the table stood, saluting Steve and his handler. He returned the move, his arm stretching above his head. It almost, _almost_, worked out the kink in his shoulder.

Sharon held out the door for him as he ducked from the room, the low ceiling of the hallway necessary due to the underground nature of their bunker, but annoying in the way it made him feel trapped.

Sometimes he woke up in his room, thinking that the walls were closing in on him, his breath stalling out in his chest. He never mentioned it to Sharon, or the physicians that oversaw his care. There were some things they just didn’t need to know about him. He’d learned decades ago to keep his own counsel, especially if he didn’t want to be put back on ice or in the chair.

“Steve,” Sharon murmured as the door closed. He turned to glance at her. Her hands came up, cupping his face and he sighed. His eyes closed as she stood on her tiptoes, pressing her lips to his. The warmth repulsed him. It always did. But she insisted on doing this, over and over. It made him want to pull away, or slap her. He knew one touch from him would crush her skull though. She was a good enough handler. Let him do his own thing. Didn’t report every single one of his infractions to their superiors.

She was worth keeping around.

“I wanted to let you know, before you go back to your room,” she said, hesitating as she landed back down on her heels. A frown crossed her pretty face, a flicker of something in her eyes he didn’t recognize for a moment. “They’ve left you a gift in your room. A reward, for a job well done.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Just know that it wasn’t my first choice,” she said. “I recommended we just kill her outright, because keeping her was a liability.”

“It’s a…” He laughed and stepped back. “I see. That kind of reward.”

There it was again, that flicker in Sharon’s eyes. Jealousy. He tried to hold back the smirk that wanted to twist his lips. She was… envious, of whomever, the woman, that waited in his room, a gift to a soldier who had returned home victorious. He needed to keep her sweet, though, so he didn’t rub it in.

“You know I’m not interested in the rewards off the battlefield,” he said, and noticed the minute relaxation in her shoulders. She smiled.

“They’ll be offended if you refuse their gift,” she reminded him. He shrugged.

“Are there explicit instructions?” He asked.

“No, not really.”

He cupped her cheek tenderly, swiping his thumb over her lower lip with a sweetness that didn’t touch the inside of him, deep in his chest where his heart sat like a lump of ice.

“I’m tired,” he said. “Sleeping sounds like a good way to spend the rest of my night.” Relieved flooded her features and she closed her eyes.

“Good,” she said. “Maybe the girl can give you a massage to help you rest.”

***

The girl. She was a liability. That’s what Sharon had said. Still, as his hand rested on the palm-plate next to his door, scanning his print, he wondered if he should have asked her _why._ He stepped into the room, the darkness comforting, senses heightened and listening for a stifled sob or a hiccup.

Looking back, he should have seen it coming.

Pain exploded in the back of his head, his shield, connecting with his skull. He stumbled forward and then whirled.

“Lights,” he snapped, and the room illuminated. Her heartbeat was so strong that he could hear it, faintly, beyond the ringing in his ears. She stood, pressed up into the wall, holding his shield tight to her chest, her eyes wide. A tumble of brown curls were snagged into a messy braid over one shoulder, highlighting the angles of her face.

Her lips were bruised, the corner bloody. She had a black eye, and scrapes up the side of her face. Who the hell had thought it was a good idea to give him something so… _used_?

The many faces of Hydra stared at him from his shield, and he smirked, rubbing the back of his head.

“Nice shot,” he commented, before his voice dropped, going flat. “You’ll pay for that.”

He reached for her, and she shrieked, slamming his shield up in his face. He went low, wrapping an arm around her waist, flipping her over his shoulder before she could make another move, plucking his shield out of her grip and dropping it.

It hit the ground with a dull clatter, and he kicked it aside.

“Privacy level five,” he said, and the soft beeps of the AI that controlled access to his room let him know they wouldn’t be disturbed for anything barring an outright invasion.

Fists pounded on his back and she rolled on his shoulder, fighting him, her legs kicking.

“Let me go you fucking racist fuckface,” she spat, even as he clamped an arm tight around her rear, shifting her so she was off balance. She gasped as she lurched further down his back, her head upside down, blood surely pooling in her face and making it heavy and hot.

He walked the three paces to his bed and tossed her on it. She bounced, once, before freezing, staring up at him.

They were silent, both of them, evaluating each other.

“Shut up,” he said, reaching to his chest for one of the many hidden clasps that kept his skin-tight uniform on. Her lower lip trembled, her pretty blue eyes wide, the pupils flared with fear.

Good.

He was tired, and while sometimes he liked a fight in the bedroom, if she was scared she might flail less. He didn’t like having to use restraints. They irritated them. He wanted his women to stay where he put him because he commanded it and for no other reason than their fear of what would happen to them if they so much as twitched.

She was wearing the clothes they’d plucked her in, obviously, from the way there was blood crusting at the neckline of her oversized sweater, and ugly knit thing in hideous colors that confused him. Why would anyone wear that? He didn’t pay attention to fashion, but…

“Take that off,” he said, with a jerk of his head at her. Her cheeks flushed hard, the fade of pink crawling down her neck.

“Fuck you, buddy,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. There was a tremble in her voice though, and he knew he had her, it was just a matter of time. She was outmatched by him one hundred to one, her slight height and soft curves implying that she was no resistance fighter or opposing troop member. She was just a civilian. A _liability_, which still made no sense.

With a sigh, he pushed his uniform down, leaving him in just a white thank top and a pair of the black, fire-retardant leggings that clung to his body. He stalked over to her, even as she scrambled across the bed to get away from him. He wrapped one hand around her ankle and pulled her back. She yelled, grabbing at the blankets, ripping up the tidy job he’d done at making his bed earlier that morning before their mission.

She’d pay for that too. She was in jeans, the material rough, baggy, and rolled up at the ankle, like they’d belonged to someone much larger than her. They’d afford her some measure of protection, for as long as he let her wear them.

Which, to be honest, that clock was counting down in the seconds. His hand came down on her ass, striking her hard and she made a choking sound that warmed his groin. Fuck, it had been too long. Way too long.

_She’s a liability._

That made no sense.

“You’re not important at all, are you?” He muttered, dragging her down the bed to him. He got his hand in the back of her jeans, and yanked, the fabric giving away under the flex of his muscles. She flipped, her bare legs exposed, bunching herself up before launching at him, her fingers extended like claws. He grabbed her mid-air, with a laugh and a shake of his head. “You thought I’d let you get the drop on me again?”

“I did it once,” she was all rage and sweetness, he realized, her anger spilling over her and turning him on even more.

“Mhmm, clever girl,” he said, dipping his head to kiss her before she could say anything else. He should ask her name. Back, several lifetimes, he’d have asked her name, stumbled in next to Bucky, tried to take her dancing, failed miserably at it.

Now he was tall and broad and had all the power, and she was nothing when compared to him.

“You know thousands of women would be grateful to be where you are,” he said, even as she squirmed, fighting him as he put her down, moving over her. The knit had to go, it really did. He wondered if he should just shove it up her chest, take her nipples into his hands, twist them and watch her back arch.

_That’s not how you paw at a dame, pal,_ the voice in his head said and he jerked.

“Shut up,” he muttered. The girl froze, her breath catching.

“I didn’t say anyth-” He clapped a hand over her mouth and shoved her down, pushing her sweater up. She was in panties, serviceable gear, plain cotton, standard-issue in the war. Her bra, too, when he got to it, was thin, unlined, and near thread-worn.

_She’s a liability._

Not in those clothes, she wasn’t, hand-me-downs that swam on her body. She was nobody important, just a useless little civilian that had gotten scooped up, a nothing, forgettable, something for him to slake his desires with. Even the band of her bra was too-loose, her ribs jutting above her belly. She looked like she’d lost weight, like her clothing had fit her at one point but…

He wrapped his hands around her ribs, noting with distinct pleasure that she stayed _still_, even not breathing as his fingers crushed down on the bone through skin. A soft whimper escaped her and he glanced up to meet her eyes, blue on blue.

There were tears on her lashes. He frowned and reached up to wipe one away. She snarled and struck, biting his hand like a dog, her teeth sinking into the flesh of his thumb.

A raw growl ripped out of his throat and he yanked his hand away, back handing her across the face. She cried out, jerking her head to the side, her arm coming up to defend herself. They stayed there like that, frozen for a moment, her breath coming in little hiccuped gasps, his own unsteady and uneven.

It was like he wanted to rip the rest of her clothes from her, spread her thighs and bury himself inside her, but he couldn’t.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

He dragged his hand down his chest, the many-headed hydra tattooed there in bold red raised under his finger-tips. It would be what she’d see while he was fucking her, reminding her of her place in the world, and in his bed. Bold thoughts, normally the kind that would feed his hunger for a female in his bed…

But this time they made his mouth go sour. He pulled away and sat back on his haunches, staring at her. When he didn’t move, she peeked at him from under her arm, her breath hitching every so often. Her fingers came up, and she tugged her sweater over her body, cautiously, like she was expecting him to hit her again for it

_And who’s fault is that, punk?_

He growled at himself, that insistent, annoying voice in his head driving him to new heights of irritation and anger. She flinched and he reached for her, ripping at her sweater as she cried out. Her legs kicked, and she got him hard in the belly, before he wrestled her down, over onto her side. It was easier like that, and even as she clawed at the sheets to get away from him, he pressed up behind her. She was a wild little thing, and he got his hand on her stomach, shoving it down under her panties. She went still as he cupped her, the broad width of his hand dwarfing her cunt. She wasn’t more than damp, from fear and exertion, but he knew how to get her there. He’d done it… hundreds, thousands maybe, of times.

If he wanted, it could be good for her. If he wanted. And suddenly, a surge of hot desire that had nothing to do with taking for himself and everything to do with giving, flooded through his body.

She trembled as he rocked his hips into her from behind, his cock hard in the small of her back. He brushed away the hair on her neck.

“Be a good girl for me,” he asked, even though he could have made her. There was something so intimate in holding her that way, his arm heavy over her waist, the tips of his fingers just curling enough so they threatened to slide inside of her. She needed to be wetter. That was his prevailing thought, and he rocked his hips into her, again and again, the tremble in her limbs ratcheting up as he rubbed his palm over her mons in slow circles.

Where his drive to make her _want_ him had come from, he had no idea. Normally he’d just rip her underwear and slide inside, getting what he needed and leaving her outside the door, naked and somebody else’s problem. He should have wanted to do that, but instead he slipped a finger inside of her, making her stiffen and let out a huff of breath.

“You’re so tight,” he murmured into her neck, wanting to bite her, wanting to _hurt_ her. He didn’t though, something holding him back.

Her hips jogged uncomfortably, like she was trying to dislodge him from fingering her.

“All the boys say that,” she said, her voice waspish and rough. A flutter of irritation grew in his chest at her impertinence, lumping him in with mere boys, and the thought that someone, anyone, else had gotten their hands on her.

With a muted snarl, he rolled her under him, a second finger spreading her open. She cried out into the blankets, which just fueled the fire inside of him, He shoved his pants down, freeing his erection, letting it slide between her legs to bump against his hand.

“There are no boys here,” he hissed, scraping her panties to the side and forcing his cock up into her beside his fingers.

She went still, the muted gasp muffled in the back of her throat as he fucked into her hard, finally withdrawing his hand so he could use to to get leverage.

She _was_ tight, and not nearly wet enough, but he’d had it with his warring, conflicted feelings. He needed to fuck her and be done with it, use her body for his own needs. With each punishing strike of his cock into her, she whimpered, her hands clawing reflexively at the blankets. It was getting easier, the pull of her flesh on his not quite so intense, her body finally, _finally_, getting wet enough that it moved from rough friction to perfect.

His eyes closed in satisfaction and he scooped a hand under her, pressing over her pubic bone until she moaned.

She lifted her hips to meet his next thrust and a wild smirk spread across his face, a reckless feeling of elation in his chest. It felt like he was winning, something, he wasn’t sure what, but he was _winning_.

“You like this?” He asked into the shell of her ear, listening for the soft moan of her response as his hips kept of the steady pace of his thrusts. His stomach was tight, core engaged as he held himself off of her, each roll of his body rubbing his thighs between hers. He wanted to chafe, wanted to leave his mark on her. There was something about her, the quiet, and not so quiet way she resisted him that was…

He was hungry for it. He was starving for the noises he was going to get her to make.

“I’m going to make you come so hard,” he muttered, with a punishing snap of his hips, working his fingers under her until he pinched her clit lightly between two fingers.

“Ah,” she said, her breath stuttering, her hips moving with his, and finally, he felt her thighs tensing just right, her feet restless on the sheets as he urged her closer to an impending orgasm. He’d dominate her like he’d dominated England.

He pushed her with long, urgent strokes of his fingertips along her clit until she was crying out, her head bent back to press into his shoulder as she panted recklessly through a hard orgasm. Her tight pussy clenched around his cock, fluttering rhythmically as he kept stroking her clit, ruthless in his demand that she _keep coming_. Her hips jerked, her fingernails clawing at his hand, fighting him. He had to laugh at that, because it felt good to feel her shudder, her whispered, frantic pleas for him to stop even as he knew her body was gearing up to-

“Come again,” he ordered, as she shook her head. “Now.” His other hand slapped on her flank, spanking the side of her ass where it met her thigh. Her whole body lurched forward, to get away from him, his touch, his cock, but it just forced her harder onto his fingers. He pinched her clit hard and she choked out a gasp, and clamped down tight on him. The coiling heat in his gut spilled out, spreading through his whole body as he came hard, his own breathing shattering in his chest.

“Fuck,” he said, lowering his neck so he could rest his forehead on her back, her skin damp with sweat. Something overcame him andhe kissed her there slowly, working his way up her spine, until he nuzzled into the crook of her neck. He slipped out of her, cupping her pussy with his palm, rubbing her slowly, soothingly, almost an apology for how hard he’d fucked her.

Which was alarming. He never felt bad for _anything_.

The cool air of the room made his skin rise in gooseflesh, and he sighed, his eyes fluttering shut. That was what he’d needed, the demons inside well and truly sated. He should get rid of her, he thought, open up the door, and dump her unceremoniously, all milky limbs and sleepy eyes, for the cleanup crew to take care of.

But she was warm. And soft. He grumbled and layed down next to her, banding an arm around her waist. She didn’t fight him, finally, _finally_, she was giving into him, her body limp, her breathing soft and uneven.

He skated a finger along her hip, a tingle rolling up his arm. The hair on his forearm stood up, and he shivered.

The girl shifted, lifting her head.

“Hmm?” He murmured. The lights flickered above, the dim safety ones that always stayed on, even in the dark of night, and he heard a soft _thump_ in the distance. He sat up hard, knowing that sound was not normal for the bunker. The girl sat up too, wanton, unashamedly naked, and staring at him with a regal look that he couldn’t mistake as anything but one of anticipatory excitement.

The curls of her hair were lifting, static electricity thick in the air and she smirked.

“You are _so_ fucking busted,” she said, her voice dripping with promise. “You didn’t even ask me my name.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is all Bulmaveg_otaku's fault, and I'm not even sorry.
> 
> Bucky is probably living rent free in Steve's head during this, and also that is totally Thor at the end coming to rescue his lightning sister.


End file.
